Can you see through the night, woman, that you stare so upon it? Man, what sparks do your eyes follow in the smouldering darkness?

Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.

You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.

On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.

This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.

I never deny poems when they come; whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.

Art is the desire of a man to express himself, to record the reactions of his personality to the world he lives in.